


having bathed my heart in your body

by ceeturnalia (traveller)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Gags, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 07:52:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5700727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>This is what happens the first time.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	having bathed my heart in your body

**Author's Note:**

> a prequel to _une histoire de bleu_ , and part of the larger shared universe. thank you all so much for your patience in waiting for that story to be complete. soon, soon. until then, here's the story of Athos and his first love. 
> 
> title from _Autumn_ by Habib Tengour.
> 
> for Melly, as ever.

**one**

This is what happens the first time. 

Olly goes to a bar in Paris on his first leave of his last year at Saint-Cyr, on a crisp October evening. It’s a quiet room, couples murmuring to each other in the soft glow of the tea lights on the tables. Someone is smoking a clove cigarette, turning the air spiced and hazy. Olly’s military history professor is sitting at the end of the bar, drinking wine and joking with the bartender. She’s dark and pretty; she slaps his wrist when he pushes some banknotes across the bartop at her, and turns away to her other customers. 

Samir Rahim spent twelve years in the Legion, the next six earning his degrees, and the past four years teaching at Saint-Cyr. Forty years old, and so fucking fit—if it weren’t for the hair, permanently tousled black curls that Olly has ached to sink his fingers into—you’d think he just stepped off the plane from Corsica yesterday. He jogs around the base in the evenings, stopping now and then to wipe his face with the hem of his shirt, and even the straight boys trip over their own tongues. 

But Olly’s favorite thing about Professor Rahim, about _Samir_ , is not the hair, not the long legs or the tight abs or even his hands, wide and strong when he gestures while lecturing. It’s the way he controls a room, the way he only has to raise his voice a fraction to settle a class of unruly cadets like he’d cracked a whip over their backs. He commands respect with every word. And the amused cock of his eyebrow when someone tries to test him… Olly spent most of his first year trying that patience, just to see that eyebrow come up for a moment before being put thoroughly in his place. 

It’s what he expects, really, when he strolls up to the corner of the bar, leaning against it, leaning into Samir’s space. "Well. Didn’t expect to see you here." 

Samir gives him a bland look. “Cadet."

"Just Olivier is fine." He offers his most winning smile. He’s pulled so much with that smile. "Is she your…?" he asks, tilting his head toward the bartender. 

At that Samir makes an amused noise. “She's my sister. What exactly are you fishing for, de la Fère?" 

"Call me Olivier," Olly repeats, and spiderwalks his fingers along the edge of the bar.  "And come home with me.” 

Samir laughs, loud enough that his sister turns her head from the other end of the room. He waves her off, still laughing, and Olly can feel his cheeks burning when Samir says, “You must be joking. You are a child. _And_ a cadet. No, not interested." 

Olly clenches his jaw a moment, swallowing the sour taste of embarrassment and the urge to protest. The only way out is through. He smirks and says, "Bullshit. I know you are. I took two semesters with you, don't think I missed the looks." 

"You are a cadet,” Samir repeats, his expression shuttering, his voice gone cold. "Go on, get out of here.” 

There’s nothing, Olly can't tell a single thing that's going on behind Samir’s suddenly closed-off face, but it’s not in him to give up easily. Not even when he knows he should. He drops his hand to Samir's thigh and says, “Are you sure?"

It’s no victory to get that raised eyebrow this time. Samir doesn’t look away from Olly, just reaches down and pushes his hand off. And that, Olly supposes, is that.

He throws back the rest of his drink before he goes, ducking out the door without looking back. Stupid. He’s never felt so stupid. He makes it as far as the corner, standing on the curb lighting a cigarette, before a hand comes down on the back of his neck and he’s pushed into the alley. He's so startled he doesn't even fight at first; he thinks briefly that this is just the perfect end to the night, getting fucking _mugged_ , but then he's being shoved face first up against the wall and a voice he knows is speaking in his ear.

"Be still. You arrogant little shit.” 

Olly feels his knees give out. 

He can hear someone call out, _Hey, what are you doing!?_ and Olly yells back,  _It's fine, we're just playing around._ He pushes himself away from the wall, but the hand is still clamped on the back of his neck. 

“If we do this,” Samir says, like there was no interruption at all, “we do this my way. Do you understand?" 

Olly nods, and swallows around the lump in his throat. When Samir guides him back toward the street, he goes without a sound.

The city flat Olly sublets from his mother isn’t far so they walk there, briskly, quietly. They go inside, up the stairs, into the darkened flat. With the door firmly closed between them and the rest of the world, Samir finally breaks the silence.

“Yes,” he says, answering the unasked. "I've seen how you react to authority and I've seen how you react to me, and if the way you responded just a little while ago is any indication, we could enjoy ourselves very much.” 

Olly breathes out a soft, grateful sound. “I’m in,” he says, taking a step forward, but Samir stops him with his hand up.

“No. Not yet.” 

There are rules. There are boundaries. He argues, Samir insists. Olivier is still a cadet, even if he is no longer Samir’s student; it’s not just Samir’s job at risk, it’s Olivier’s future as well. There are more conditions, and Olly stops listening, pressing forward with his mouth open, his tongue dragging over his lip. 

“Enough with the rules,” he says, reaching toward Samir’s belt. 

Samir snaps his fingers, his voice like a pistol shot. “On your knees.” 

After two years of military school it's ingrained in him to take the order immediately, even in this situation. Olly drops, the hardwood floor cold and unforgiving, and he can’t suppress a curse at the impact. Samir takes his handkerchief out of his pocket, refolds it very carefully, and stuffs it in Olly's mouth.

"I'm tired of the backtalk," he says. “Yes or no, shake or nod your head only. Understand?"

Olly braces his hands on his thighs; he breathes in through his nose and nods twice. 

"Good. Are you uncomfortable right now?" 

The question doesn’t make sense. Olly can’t help the face he makes, frowning around the gag, his head tilted to one side, and Samir gazes down at him for a moment before answering. 

“Our goal here, the point of it all, is for everyone to feel good and get off in a way that they like. So if something doesn't feel good to you... If you're not feeling right in _here—_ " Samir says, gesturing to his temple. “And in here—“  He moves his hand over his heart _. "_ You aren't going to feel good no matter what I do to your body." 

At that Olly nods very slowly, once. 

Samir crouches down, so that they're on the same level, eye to eye. " _This is not a game, Olivier,"_  he says very softly, very gently. “Not for me. If all you are looking for in a lover is someone to rough you up and make you take what they give out, you are welcome to seek that, but you won't get it from me. Understand?” 

Olly shakes his head. 

"Is that no you don't understand, or no you understand and you want out?" Samir takes the tail of the handkerchief and tugs the cloth out of Olivier's mouth. 

“Yes, I—" He stops and has to swallow, wet his lips and try again. “Yes, I think I understand, and no I don't want out, but I don't... actually understand."

The look that Samir gives him is surprisingly fond. “In truth," he says, “That's not a bad place to begin."

This is what happens the first time. Samir has Olly get up, and tells him to show him to the bedroom. Samir takes off his jacket, his shirt, his shoes and socks, and stands there in his trousers and undershirt and tells Olly to take off as much as he feels comfortable. Olly gets down to his jeans and suddenly feels self-conscious, so he stops, and Samir cups his cheek and tells him he's doing very well. Olly shivers. 

Samir asks if there is anything that Olly wants in particular, and Olly nods, but all his nerve is gone, all that brassy arrogance that got him this far has burnt off. Samir kisses him for the first time then, a slow and filthy tongue fuck that goes on and on, just standing there in the middle of the bedroom. When they finally, finally break, Olly whispers in Samir's ear, and Samir tells him that it's good, that it's okay to want that. Samir explains how they will do it. He explains red, yellow, and green.

So this is what happens. Olly gets on his knees there on the bedroom floor, and Samir puts his fingers under Olly's chin to tilt his face up. He rubs his thumb over Olly's lips, kiss-swollen and red, and Olly says, _Green_ , his lips closing just a moment around the tip of Samir's thumb. 

Samir pulls his hand back and slaps him across the face.

Olly moans at the impact and lifts his head again for the next slap, bracing his hands again on his thighs. Samir hits him four more times, twice on each side, and his cheeks are burning when Samir stops. His cheeks are burning and his cock is aching and he looks up and whispers, “Thank you."

Samir leans down and kisses him gently. "You did so well. So well.” 

He wants more. He licks his lips and he says,  _Again?_ but Samir shakes his head. Olly only has a moment to be disappointed, because then Samir is straightening up and unzipping his trousers. 

Olly has always sought out lovers who could play rough with him, who could hold him down, who could push him to the edge, and some of them were amazing, but none of those men ever had such  _control_. Samir fucks his mouth so that he coughs and gags, but somehow does it with such precision that Olly never worries for a second that he'll really be hurt. That is what makes it work, he will think later. That is how he can let go, how he can go where he never was able to before. 

Samir fucks his mouth and Olly sinks into the feeling, into every sensation. He feels the fingers in his hair, the tight grip on the short strands making his scalp prickle; he feels the heat of Samir's cock on his tongue, the soft blunt pressure on the back of his throat. He feels lifted out of himself, there on the floor. He comes easily, untouched, moaning and shuddering. Later he will understand that Samir was waiting for it, that Samir was holding back; in the moment he only knows that he comes, his body wracked with pleasure, and seconds later Samir is filling his mouth.

He chokes, swallows, and passes out. 

He's really only out for a few seconds, but he's still seeing spots as Samir guides him up to the bed, gently easing him down onto the pillows. He closes his eyes and feels Samir leave him; when he opens them again Samir is beside him, stroking a cold washcloth over his overheated face. 

“It's normal," Samir explains to him in a quiet voice. "You were overwhelmed. You've never experienced such a thing before, I think?"

Olly nods. He can't find his voice, but Samir doesn't seem to mind. 

"Your body can do amazing things," he goes on. He refolds the cloth and presses it to the left side of Olly's face. “So can your mind. If we teach them to work together in the right ways, the result can be stunning. There is so much more to pleasure than what's between your legs." Samir pauses, and his smile is rich with promise. "Although that part is very nice." 

 _Teach me,_ Olly wants to say, _show me everything_. But Samir is standing up and putting the cloth aside, he is reaching for his shirt, hanging over the foot of the bed. 

“Stay," is what he says, his voice raspy. “Please."

Samir's smile is kind now, and he shakes his head. "I can’t."

" _Please,_ " Olly repeats, and Samir sighs. 

"I shouldn’t," he amends, but he sits down again, and brushes the back of his hand over Olly's brow. "Let's take a bath," he says, "and you can convince me."

 

**two**

 

Nine months, and at the end of nine months, when the affair came to its natural end and he drove away from Guer for the last time, he felt at first satisfaction. He felt as though he owned his body for the first time in his life, that he knew everything he could ask it to do, and what to expect of every question. How much weight he could carry, how fast he could run, how far he could march. How long he could wait for permission to come. He felt whole, which was strange because at the very same time, he felt as though something huge and vital had been carved out of his center and hidden away. He felt this loss echoing inside him, and for kilometer after kilometer, as he drove, he tried to find the source of it. Leaving school, perhaps; the familiarity and safety of the academy? The uncertainty of the future, that even knowing he must report for orders and training in a few weeks, he for the first time did not see every step laid out ahead of him?

Kilometer after kilometer, back to La Fère, and driving up the lane he saw the July evening sun beginning to sink behind the chateau, the sky wild with orange and purple and yellow and brown. When he came to a stop and turned off the engine he could hear music pouring out of his mother's open studio window, a soaring soprano filling the air. He closed his eyes, folded his arms over the steering wheel, and bowed his head, overcome with weariness, with the relief of being home but also the awareness that at some time he had passed that point at which he could claim to still be a child, to be petted and cosseted as he once had, and the knowledge that had he not insisted on rejecting childhood well before time—as almost all children do—he could have held on to that comfort much longer. 

All at once the truth became clear, and the echo inside him amplified into a sound like a thunderclap, vibrating a moment before falling into silent emptiness. He had never expected to love Samir, had no idea what it looked like and had not noticed when it crept into his belly, taking up residence and beginning to grow. 

And the sound of Maria Callas on the evening air was enough to hide the sound of his crying.

 

**three**

 

Of course it was love. For Samir it was several kinds of love: sexual, yes, and a deep fondness, and sense of care. He worried for Olivier's happiness, for his safety, for his career; he felt responsible for preserving all three to the best of his ability. It couldn't have gone on past Olivier's leaving. It simply wasn't possible. But Olivier was a wonderful lover, and a dedicated student of pleasure; the affair was, Samir thought the day he kissed the young man goodbye, going to be a beautiful memory for them both. 

They don’t lose touch right away, exchanging calls and emails as Olivier goes through specialist school, then gets his first command. It’s when Olivier’s parents are killed that thread unravels. Samir goes the service—it isn't out of place, Jean-Michel de la Fère had also been a Saint-Cyrian, and many of the older faculty and officers are there as well. Olivier looks stunned through the whole thing, his hair shorn down to the scalp, his cheeks still sunburnt from his deployment. He accepts Samir’s quick kiss and quiet condolences, and promises to ring, but the call never comes. 

It's nearly two years later that Samir sees Olivier out in Paris with a woman, coming out of a five-star restaurant on a cool early spring evening. Samir, having just come with his sister out of the three-star bistro up the block, throws up a hand in recognition. Olivier waves back, smiling; he looks too thin but still so beautiful, and Samir feels his heart tighten as though it were gripped in a fist. Olivier takes two steps toward Samir and Sakina, but the woman catches his arm, and he stops like a dog hitting the end of his lead. 

He nods at Samir once, then turns to follow the woman, keeping his head down. 

"That was weird," Sakina says, making a face. 

Samir nods, and keeps his fears to himself. 

He rings Olivier's mobile when he gets back to Guer that Sunday night. There is no answer. He leaves a message, and gets no reply. 

 

Whispers of what happened in La Fère reach Saint-Cyr, of course. As quiet as the family's wealth and position could keep the affair, word did travel, particularly among those who had known Olivier. This time when Samir rings, he's informed by a robotic voice that the number has been disconnected. 

 

It's nearly seven years later that Samir sees Olivier out in Paris with a young man, walking through the Marché des Enfants Rouges on a warm spring afternoon. Olivier has a beard and longer hair but Samir knows that smile, that pink-cheeked duck of his head as he laughs at something his companion is saying. The other man is slender and dark-eyed, with black hair to his shoulders and a mischievous grin; he holds a straw market basket in one hand, and Olivier's hand in the other. 

Sakina jabs Samir in the ribs with her elbow. "Isn't that—?" 

 _“Samir?"_ Olivier says, his face open and his voice wondering. He pulls his companion along, tugging him past the other shoppers in the aisle. The young man stage-whispers  _Really?_ and follows. 

They embrace, they kiss each other's cheeks; Olivier does the same to Sakina, and introduces, "D'Artagnan, Charles d’Artagnan—"

"No one calls me Charles," he interrupts, a laugh in his voice. "Just d'Artagnan is fine. Military habit."

Samir’s heart swells, and he clasps the other man's hand in both of his. “D’Artagnan,” he repeats. "It is so, so very good to meet you," 

**Author's Note:**

> • a note on age: the military academy at Saint-Cyr is the equivalent of an American masters program; a third-year student like Athos would be 23 or 24 years old.
> 
> • if it pleases you to imagine an actor for Samir, do please imagine [Nicolas Cazalé](http://ceeturnalia.tumblr.com/tagged/nicolas-cazal%C3%A9).
> 
> • _part two_ rather shamelessly lifted from Marguerite Duras.


End file.
